Demon's Dance (Lizzie Grace 4)

“Because it’s the best of the three movies and can’t be watched piecemeal.”

“I’ll argue about the first part of that statement later. Right now, we need to get moving. Up, lazybones.”

He threw the sheet off and got out of bed. Like most werewolves, he was on the lean side, but his body was well proportioned and nicely muscled, and he did have a rather nice backside.

I stretched the kinks out of my body, then wearily climbed out of bed and started getting dressed.

“I really wish you could be the reservation witch—it’d make more sense now that you’re linked with the wild magic.” He held up a hand to stall my almost instinctive response. “And yes, I know you’ve never been through accreditation or whatever you call it, and would therefore never be government approved.”

Accreditation—or lack thereof—was certainly a good enough reason for never becoming a reservation witch, right alongside my decided lack of knowledge and training when it came to spell craft. But the true reason was the fact that the reservation witch was basically the government’s mouthpiece and was expected to remain in regular contact with the high witch council. Given I was on the run from my parents, I had no intention of doing anything that might have them looking too closely at this place.

Of course, Castle Rock had now been without a proper witch for well over a year, and it had placed the entire reservation in a dangerous situation thanks to the presence of a large wellspring that had been left unguarded for entirely too long. Wild magic was neither good nor bad, but it would always draw the darker forces of the world if left in a raw, unprotected state. While that was no longer the case thanks to the spells both Ashworth—who’d been sent here by the Regional Witch Association to chase down a soul stealer, and who’d then stepped into the reservation position temporarily—and I had placed around it, the repercussions of leaving it unguarded would be felt for years to come.

In many respects, we were lucky the situation wasn’t even worse,

as there was a second wellspring here—one that Canberra didn’t as yet know about. But both the ghost of the reservation’s previous witch—Gabe Watson—and the soul of his werewolf wife—Katie, who also happened to be Aiden’s younger sister—protected that one.

“Neither you nor I nor anyone else should be relying on my link with the wild magic, Aiden, because I shouldn’t even have it.” My voice held the slightest edge, one that was based on trepidation of a future possibility I could see coming and didn’t want. “I have no idea if it’ll even last. This reservation deserves someone who knows a hell of a lot more about spelling than me.”

And if I put that statement out there in the universe often enough, maybe it’d listen.

“And I think you’re downplaying your role and your magic far too much, Liz.” He sat and pulled his boots on. “It wasn’t the RWA witches or the heretic hunter who took out the various evil entities that have hit us in recent months. It was you—”

“It was never just me,” I cut in curtly. “And there was always a high degree of luck involved. Sooner or later, that luck will run out.”

His gaze met mine. Though his expression gave little away, I knew he sensed my fear. Knew he understood that it didn’t come from the possibility of death, but rather discovery.

I took a deep breath and changed the subject. “I doubt we’re dealing with a vampire—they generally don’t leave bodies littered with bite marks.”

Something flickered through his blue eyes—annoyance or disappointment or maybe even both—but all he said was, “If it’s not a vampire, then what else could it be?”

“There’s all manner of supernatural beasties that don’t mind taking a bite or two out of humans.” I paused, and then, in an attempt to lighten the mood, added, “And apparently a few werewolves who don’t mind the odd nip or two, either.”

The smile that tugged at his lips didn’t quite dispel the annoyance in his expression. The confrontation I feared—the one where I either told the truth about myself or walked away—was looming ever closer.

“Only when begged. Which you did—and rather loudly.”

Which was certainly true. But then, he did do some of his best work with teeth and tongue. I grabbed a tie and swept my hair into a ponytail, then shoved my feet into sandals and slung my purse over my shoulder. While I didn’t have much in the way of witch paraphernalia with me, I’d gotten into the habit of keeping a small, bubble-wrapped bottle of holy water in an inside purse pocket. There weren’t very many situations in which it wouldn’t provide at least some protection, even if it was something as simple as forming a protective circle over which evil could not cross.

He swept his keys, phone, and wallet from the bedside table and then said, “Ready?”

I nodded and headed for the stairs. His house was a lovely two-story, cedar-clad building situated on the curving shoreline of the Argyle Lake and, aside from the two en suite bedrooms upstairs, had a ground floor that was a combined kitchen, dining and living area. Light poured in through the wall of glass that dominated the end overlooking the lake, and though the moon was currently in a waning phase, her power sang through my veins. It was a force all witches could feel, and one that could greatly amplify the strength of spells.

I crossed mental fingers and hoped that I didn’t have to use her tonight. That whatever had caused the death of Ms. Jenkins’s boyfriend wasn’t supernatural but rather a simple murder—an affair gone wrong, perhaps. After a couple of tumultuous months dealing with vampires, soul-sucking spirits, and a heretic witch determined to claim the larger wellspring as his own, we really deserved a few months of peace.

But that rather annoying prophetic part of my soul said a month was all we were ever likely to get. That peace wouldn’t be ours until the whispers of an unguarded wellspring finally stopped echoing through the darker places of the world.

Aiden’s truck was parked out the front of the building; the lights flashed as he hit the remote, flaring briefly across the lake’s dark but still water. He didn’t switch on the siren until we were out of the park and on the main highway.

It took us just under thirty minutes to get to Castle Rock. Aiden sped through the main part of town, then swung right and drove through a number of dark side streets until we were up near the secondary college.

After a final turn, he pulled up beside the two green-and-white ranger SUVs already parked there. The house was a simple double-fronted, fibro-cement building that was painted in what could only be described as baby-shit yellow. The roof tiles and the front door were dark brown, and there were cream-and-brown-striped canvas awnings pulled halfway down over the only two windows in the front of the building. At the far end of the long drive was a carport; parked inside were two vehicles—a Mercedes and a new-looking four-wheel drive. The house might be modest, but the occupants obviously weren’t struggling for a buck.

The front door opened, and a familiar figure strode toward us. Like most Marin werewolves, Byron was tall, with dark amber eyes, brown skin, and brown hair that had a slight tinge of red. Surprise flitted across his expression when he saw me, but all he said was, “There’s no sign of intruders or a break-in, and all the doors were locked from the inside. Whoever did this was invited in. Ciara’s inside examining the body.”

“Have we got an ID yet?”

Byron nodded. “According to his driver’s license, our victim is Kyle Jacobson, and he’s twenty-nine.”